


Happiness is the Absence of Fever

by rubygirl29



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson has been vaccinated against every germ known to man, but they still haven't found a cure for the common cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happiness is the Absence of Fever

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: They belong to Marvel. I just borrow them as needed.

Phil Coulson has been vaccinated against every exotic disease on the face of the earth, but not even the crack scientists and med teams of S.H.I.E.L.D. have found a cure for the common cold. It doesn't help that the air conditioning in his office has been blowing icy cold air down his back for the last two days while the thermostat is being recalibrated. Shit happens, even to Tony Stark, who takes the failure of his HVAC system as a personal affront.

Phil's throat is sore and he has a pounding headache that four extra-strength pain killers have failed to dull. He wants to put his head down on his desk and sleep, but he can't do that. His inbox is filled with reports and Fury has been pestering him about his sit-reps. He wants to tell Fury that _he_ should try sorting out reports from Tony Stark, or as Clint calls him, "Tony Snark", a Russian assassin who speaks English perfectly but whose written reports are sprinkled with bizarre colloquialisms, and a PhD who usually doesn't remember what happens when he goes green. Thor doesn't write, he declaims in epic poetry. Coulson has no complaints about Steve's reports other than they are somewhat too clinical compared to those of his flamboyant teammates. Then there are Clint's ... Phil sighs. Barton's written reports are usually late, his penmanship is awful, and as much as he talks, his reports are painfully unembellished: _I hit the target. He is dead._

It's enough to make Phil want to weep. He sneezes instead, and his head throbs. He can't help it; he closes his eyes and puts his head on his folded arms. He doesn't hear his door open, but he feels a strong hand on his shoulder and hears Clint Barton's voice calling his name, then speaking into the system mike.

"JARVIS, send a med team --"

Phil raises his bleary eyes. "Disregard that," he croaks. He blinks up at Barton's concerned face. "I have a cold."

"No wonder. It's freezing in here." He sets two fingers against Phil's forehead. "Man, you're burning up."

"Can't be cold and hot at the same time ..." Phil's voice sounds far away in his ears. 

"Yeah, you can. Trust me, I know. Coulson, you're going home. Now." He wraps his field jacket around Phil's shoulders. It's wonderfully warm and smells like Clint ... Phil wants to bury his face in it.

"Car keys? There's no way you're fit to ride on the back of my bike." 

Coulson opens his desk drawer and Clint retrieves his keys. "Can you walk that far?" he asks, concerned.

"It's a cold," Phil whispers. "Not the plague."

"I hear it starts like a cold," Clint says and Phil shoots him a look from red-rimmed eyes that has Barton holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Sorry." He wraps his arm around Phil's shoulder. "JARVIS, tell Director Fury that Agent Coulson is going home for the day."

"Yes, sir."

Phil can't even find the energy to protest. He lets Clint steer him towards the elevator to the garage. He hardly remembers getting into the car. He dozes most of the way to his apartment, his head and his stomach are in complete rebellion, his sinuses are throbbing in time to his pulse. He has to fight the impulse to draw up his knees to his chest and moan. What is he? Five? A little moan must have escaped because Barton is setting a cool hand on his forehead. 

"You need a doctor," he says.

"No." 

Clint gives an exasperated sigh, but manages to park, haul Phil out of the car and half-carry him to the elevator. Once inside his apartment, Phil's knees give out and he is suddenly aware that he is being swept off his feet and carried into the bedroom. Ridiculous, but comforting, too, that Barton didn't just flop him down on the couch and leave.

Instead, he seems to float down to his mattress. His head hits the pillow, and he simply lets go of consciousness. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

"Phil ... Come on, time for more meds." He never thought Barton could sound so gentle; his voice just a whiskey and honey whisper. A strong arm slides under his shoulders. "Come on."

Phil slits one eye open, bracing for an intrusion of sunlight. The room is dim, blinds drawn. It's a relief. Clint opens his fingers and puts two pills in his palm. "I love you, man, but I'm not putting these in your mouth."

Phil's laugh turns into a cough. "Ouch!"

"What hurts? Throat, lungs?"

Phil points to his throat. There is relief in Clint's expression. "Natasha stopped by and brought medicine from the pharmacy. They should help."

The room is starting to spin again. Phil takes the pills and lies back down. Clint props him up for a second and pushes a second pillow under his head. It feels better than being flat on his back. He turns slightly on his side, away from the window. The mattress yields slightly as Barton sits next to him and toes off his shoes. Clint's body is warm and hard. Phil rests his hand against Barton's thigh, nestles deeper into the pillows and drifts back to sleep. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

He recalls being awakened twice during the night to take pills and drink what seems like gallons of water. He wakes up a third time on his own, and alone. The faint light from the living room leaks into the bedroom, flickering faintly. The television is on. Phil sits up experimentally. His headache is gone, his throat feels better and he can breathe -- which he counts as a minor miracle. He feels shaky, but stable enough to make it to the bathroom. He deliberately avoids looking in the mirror. At some point, however, Barton must have muscled him out of his suit and into sweatpants. He is stripped down to his t-shirt. Oddly, enough, he doesn't mind. 

He pads softly into the living room. Clint is sleeping face down on the sofa, one arm hanging to the floor, the remote just out of the reach of his fingers. Phil turns off the TV. Even though the sound was muted, Clint turns to his back and opens his eyes. 

They are blue, unfocused, and framed by ridiculous eyelashes. _Bedroom eyes_ , Phil thinks before he tamps down the impulse to feel the flutter of them against his lips. 

Barton's gaze focuses. "Are you all right?"

"Better. I probably should --"

"You're not going in to the office today," Barton says. "First, it's Saturday. Second, you're sick. Go back to bed."

"Saturday?"

"Yeah, Sleeping Beauty. Saturday."

Phil sits down on his favorite armchair. "That's good. I should be up to speed by Monday."

Clint's brow rises. "Oh, really? Right now you're so drugged up you don't know what day it is and you think you'll be recovered that fast? Got news for you, Agent Coulson. S.H.I.E.L.D. can run without you there 24/7."

"We'll see," Coulson concedes. 

Clint sits up and stretches, the hem of his t-shirt rising just high enough to give Phil a glimpse of rock-hard abs and narrow, extremely sexy obliques. If he didn't have a fever already, that would have given him one. He can feel the flush on his cheeks. 

Clint is frowning at him. He reaches out and Phil recoils slightly from his touch. "I'm just taking your temperature," Clint says. "It won't hurt." He sets a cool palm on Phil's forehead. The temptation to burrow into it is overwhelming. Phil sighs and lets Clint cradle his forehead briefly. 

"You're too warm. Go back to bed and I'll get your medicine." Phil tries to summon up the energy to move. Clint shakes his head and slides his arm around Phil's waist. "Come on." He wouldn't mind ... much ... if Clint were to carry him again, but he's upright and walking, so that would be counterproductive. Back in bed, Clint covers him with the blanket. His hands are gentle, which Phil finds somewhat amusing given the calluses on his fingers and palms from the bow he uses.

The antihistamine hits him like a sledgehammer and in a few minutes, he's down for the count. Was that Barton's hand on his hair? He wonders fuzzily before all goes dark again.

When he wakes up, the room is lit with the gold light of late afternoon. He sits up slowly. Better than earlier, he thinks. For the first time in days, he realizes he's hungry, and that there is a wonderful aroma coming from the other room. He reaches for his old flannel robe and wanders into the living room. Clint is making clattering noises in the kitchen. 

Phil heads that way and leans against the entry. Barton, in a t-shirt, jeans and with a towel tucked into the waist as an apron is stirring something on the stove. Phil clears his throat softly, but even that has Barton turning, a knife at the ready in his right hand and a ladle in his left. 

"Interesting choice of weapons, Agent Barton."

Clint blushes and Phil is undone. He takes a deep breath. "Something smells wonderful."

" _Pho bat_ from the Vietnamese take out. Just heating it up and adding a few things."

"So, it's not like you're cooking, right?"

"I can cook," Clint argues amiably. He puts down the cutlery and gets out two bowls. He ladles in the rich broth and noodles and garnishes the soup with fresh basil, cilantro, and slivers of carrot. The man has serious knife skills and not just as a weapons expert. "I sent out for the herbs and veggies. God, Coulson, don't you believe in fresh produce?"

Phil shrugs. "I'm not here very often."

"No wonder you're sick. You need somebody to take care of you." 

"That's not in your job description," Phil counters, but he softens it with a smile. He's rewarded with another blush, which Clint endearingly tries to disguise as heat by swiping his arm across his forehead. He carries the bowls to the small bistro table where Phil usually eats his solitary meals. 

"Eat. It's good for what ails you."

Phil makes a small hum of agreement. He sits at the table. He's not a big man, and he knows how to make his body fit into cramped quarters due to time spent on aircraft carriers. Barton, with his muscular arms and broad shoulders seems to dwarf the table, even if he is only an inch or so taller than Phil. 

"Eat," he repeats. "You need it."

Phil takes a spoonful of soup and all his taste buds explode with happiness. The broth is salty, spicy, hot, sour, and sweet. The noodles are soft and don't irritate his throat. The chicken meat has been shredded into thin strips and it nearly melts in Phil's mouth. He thinks he might have moaned if the amused expression in Barton's eyes is any indication.

"Good?" he asks.

He hsd to have seen the blissed-out look on Phil's face. "Amazing." He keeps eating and the soup keeps tasting every bit as delicious as the first mouthful. Clint is watching him, his arms folded across his chest, looking self-satisfied and smug. "You're not eating?"

"I'll get to it. Right now, I'm exercising by prerogative as a chef to watch his customers enjoy the meal."

"I'd feel better if you ate."

Clint picks up his spoon, swallows and nods. "Not bad. It needs a little more fish sauce and thai chiles."

"No. It's perfect. It's not like I've never had _Pho bat_ before ... this is right up there with the food in Saigon." 

"When were you there?" Clint asks, genuine interest lighting his face. They talk easily about their travels until the soup is gone -- Phil had a second helping -- and then they move into the living room. 

Clint looks at the big screen TV. "So, what do you watch?"

"The news mostly."

"Seriously? That's not what I hear." He raises a brow at Phil. "Rumor has it that you like reality shows."

It's Phil's turn to blush. "It's a weakness. I'm fascinated by what people are willing to put on camera, though my current addiction is _Storage Wars_."

Clint rolls his eyes. "Food TV, " he confesses. 

"Ah ... I should have known." He sits on the couch and turns on the Food Network. "Let me guess. _Iron Chef_ is your favorite."

Clint grins and sits next to him. His thigh is warm and hard against Phil's. It feels good, and he makes no move to shift away from the contact. Phil stifles a yawn. Barton is watching Bobby Flay take down the competition. He is rapt, leaning slightly forward. Phil settles deeper into the seat. In general, he feels almost human again, but dragged out. He tips his head back against the cushions. A few minutes later, his head lolls against Clint's shoulder and Barton slides his arm around him. Briefly, Phil thinks that this is all kinds of wrong. It is also all kinds of right. He's too tired to indulge in arguments. He just is ... in that moment ... at perfect peace.

**The End**


End file.
